Chapter Nineteen
NINETEEN
“WE HAVE YOUR usual table ready, Miss Beckett.”
The hostess’s crisp white shirt and tailored black skirt exude an air of effortless elegance.
She glides through the dimly lit restaurant, heels clicking on the polished marble floor, creating a sharp rhythm against the clink of silverware and the murmur of conversations.
I trail behind her, hands smoothing down my olive-green sweater dress.
The thick heels of my suede ankle boots echo faintly in the spacious room.
The scent of rich food, mingled with expensive perfumes, hangs heavy in the air.
“Will Mr. Devlin be joining you tonight?” she asks as we reach our usual table for two.
It’s a prime spot near the center, where James can survey the room and be seen by anyone entering.
“Yes.” My voice catches a little, despite my effort to sound confident. “He should be here shortly.”
“Wonderful.” Her smile is a practiced mask as she slides my chair back with a flourish.
The soft leather conforms to my back but does nothing to ease the rigid tension gripping my shoulders.
“I’ll send your server over,” she says, unfolding my napkin and placing it in my lap.
“Thank you.”
I inhale deeply, trying to steady my racing pulse.
I take in the familiar surroundings: the large sepia and black art pieces framed in gold, the imposing black walls, the golden medallion dominating the ceiling. The massive crystal chandelier shimmering beneath it no longer mesmerizes me.
I’ve memorized every detail in this place. It has been the backdrop for our countless dinners.
A sharp, unexpected pang of sadness pierces my chest.
This will be our last time here together.
I remember the first time James brought me to The Sterling, back when we had just started seeing each other.
Everything felt fresh and thrilling. My mind went completely blank, overwhelmed by the level of luxury I hadn’t known existed.
I felt out of place then, an imposter in a world of tailored suits and designer dresses.
And now, many visits later, that feeling still lingers.
This place, with its opulent décor and hushed whispers, never grew on me.
“Miss Beckett, good evening.” Jake’s voice, tinged with warmth, cuts through my thoughts. “Welcome back. We haven’t seen you in some time. You look lovely as always.”
“Jake, hello.” I am genuinely relieved to see a familiar face. “It’s so nice to see you.”
“And you,” he returns, his smile lines crinkling.
He leans in slightly, his voice dropping to a confidential tone. “And I gotta say, Miss Beckett, honestly, I’m so glad you’ve moved on. You deserve much better, if you don’t mind me saying.”
Moved on?
He thinks James and I broke up?
Oblivious to my turmoil, Jake continues with a wry shake of his head, “Between you and me, you made the right choice. Some of the company Mr. Devlin’s been bringing in lately…
” He trails off. “You’re a breath of fresh air compared to the, shall we say, more boisterous ones.
” He straightens up, his professional demeanor returning.
“Anyway, can I offer you something to drink while you wait?”
Swallowing hard against the lump in my throat, I find myself incapable of correcting him.
What for?
It will be true soon enough.
I grip the linen napkin, my fingers crushing the smooth fabric. “Just water for now, Jake,” I manage, my voice strained.
“Flat, correct?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Flat and deflated.
Jake nods and retreats, leaving me alone with the gnawing unease taking root in the pit of my stomach.
Boisterous ones.
The words echo in my mind.
James with other women at this restaurant.
Even at this very table, maybe.
This place, meant to be ours, where our love grew one extravagant meal at a time. Suspecting is one thing. Having it confirmed by a familiar face with no reason to lie is quite another. I look at the opulent décor with fresh eyes. The grandeur now feels hollow.
The Sterling has become as unfamiliar to me as my fiancé.
I pull out my phone, cool against my clammy hands.
No messages. No calls.
I type out a quick text:
Running late?
I hit send, then stare at the screen, willing a response.
Nothing.
I try calling him.
As it rings, Jake returns, placing the crystal glass on the table with a quiet “Here you go, Miss Beckett.” I nod my thanks, the phone pressed to my ear.
The beep of his voicemail cuts through the line.
I pick up my glass and down most of it, glancing over the rim at the entrance, half-expecting, half-dreading to see James stroll in. His usual confident, bordering on arrogant, demeanor firmly in place.
The entrance remains empty.
A server returns to refill my glass for the third time. I notice Jake purposefully avoiding my gaze, busying himself with other tables. I drink more water if only to give me something to do. To break the monotony of agonizing.
How long has it been?
Thirty minutes?
Forty?
Time stretches and contracts. I trace the patterns on the black linen napkin, the elaborate table setting blurring before my eyes. I press a hand to my chest, but the pounding remains a hammer blow against my dwindling patience.
He wouldn’t just stand me up.
Would he?
Doubt, cold and insidious, coils around my heart, squeezing all remnants of hope from my chest. I search my memory for any hint he wouldn’t show up.
He’d been hungover, barely coherent, clearly annoyed by my insistence on a serious talk. But he had agreed. He’d even suggested The Sterling himself.
Seven o’clock.
He’d confirmed it. His voice dripped with irritation, but he had confirmed it.
I text him again:
Seriously, where are you?
Another fifteen minutes crawl by.
A poised pianist crosses the dining room to the black grand piano in the corner.
It gleams under the soft light. As he settles onto the bench, applause ripples through the room.
His fingers fly over the keys, a lively, upbeat melody filling the air.
The elated diners, their laughter and chatter weaving around the cheerful tune, seem to exist in a different world.
A world I’m no longer a part of.
Each note, each burst of laughter, is a fresh reminder of the empty chair across from me.
The silence at my own table.
An hour.
An hour since our reservation, and still no James.
The knot in my stomach tightens into a painful lump. Anger, hot and fierce, bubbles beneath the surface, replacing the fear.
He could at least have the decency to call. To offer some explanation.
Even a lie at this point would be better than this torturous silence.
I stare at my phone, willing it to ring, to vibrate, to offer some sign of life. But it’s just a cold, unfeeling rectangle of glass and metal, as unresponsive as James himself.
He’s not coming.
I’m done being his puppet. I’m done playing the happy fiancée just because he holds that damn loan over my head.
In one last-ditch effort, I call him again.
Still nothing.
I shove my phone into my purse and push back my chair. The sudden movement scrapes against the polished floor, a jarring sound in this refined atmosphere. Jake appears at my side, his earlier joviality completely gone, replaced by a worried frown.
“Is everything alright, Miss Beckett?” he asks, his voice hushed.
“I have to go.” My words are clipped.
I can’t bear to utter another lie. To pretend that this is anything other than what it is…
The end.
If James won’t come to me, I’ll go to him.
I flee the restaurant, the rush of cold air a slap in the face. A fire of impatience ignites in my gut, propelling me forward, keys clutched in my hand. My car is just down the block, and I know exactly where I’m going.
James’s office.
The lobby of James’s office building is a monument to cold efficiency, amplified by the after-hours stillness.
Towering walls of polished grey stone reflect the dimmed light.
The floor stretches out before me, broken only by a single, low bench upholstered in a severe black-and-white.
On either side of the security desk are two banks of elevators, their sleek doors gleaming dully.
Behind the stark white desk, a lone guard sits motionless, his gaze fixed on a screen.
The usual workday bustle is replaced by an unsettling quiet, broken only by the hum of the AC and the distant whir of a vacuum.
This space is the antithesis of my café.
A perfect reflection of the man I’m here to confront.
I hesitate at the edge of the vast lobby. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to move forward, my heels echoing in the near-empty space. With each step, the knot of anxiety in my stomach tightens.
This is it.
Time for the performance of a lifetime.
I approach the desk, offering the guard a smile I pray looks confident. “Good evening,” I say, my voice surprisingly steady. “I’m here to see James Devlin.”
“Mr. Devlin didn’t mention any visitors. And it’s after hours, ma’am.” The guard, a burly man, sweeps his gaze over the deserted lobby.
“Oh, I know.” I flash my engagement ring, letting it catch the light. “Fiancée. I’m not here on business. We’re running late for dinner and I’m here to pull him away, as usual.” I force a light giggle and an eye-roll, praying my act is believable.
He glances at the ring, then back at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. An uncomfortable lull settles as he lifts the phone to his ear and presses a few numbers.
“Nobody’s picking up,” he says after a long minute.
My mind races.
Doing my best to maintain composure, I wave a dismissive hand. “Oh, that’s typical James. Probably just stepped away. Don’t worry about it.” Before he can protest, I start heading purposefully towards the nearest bank of elevators. “I know how focused he gets when he’s drowning in paperwork.”
“Uhh, ma’am.”
Busted.
He points to the elevator bank on the opposite side. “Wrong elevators. Those are the ones that will take you up to his floor.”
Relief hits me so hard I almost sag, but I remember my act. “Oh! Of course, silly me. Thanks. Long day!” I offer a slightly manic giggle as I change direction, crossing to the other side.
To my immense relief, a car arrives almost immediately, the doors sliding open with a hiss and whooshing shut, sealing me in the confined box.
The ascent is slow.
Agonizing.
Each upward lurch seems to mirror the frantic beat of my heart. I close my eyes, trying to steady my breathing, but the image of the security guard’s skeptical face flashes in my mind.
What if I’m wrong?
What if James isn’t here?
The thought sends panic shooting through me.
I’ve put on this complete farce, risked being caught in a lie, and for what? To find an empty office?
But then I remember Jake’s words, the “boisterous ones.” And the blatant annoyance in James’s dark eyes when he conceded to meeting me there for dinner.
He has to be here.
A sliver of hope, fragile but persistent, flickers in my chest. Maybe this will finally force him to face me. To face us breaking it off.
I open my eyes, my gaze fixed on the illuminated numbers above the door. Each one feels like an eternity. The faint hum of the elevator motor only amps up my anxiety.
Come on, come on. I plead with the ascending machine.
I hold my breath, a silent prayer escaping my lips that this desperate gamble isn’t a mistake. That I’ll find him in there and put an end to this charade. That maybe, he’ll agree to end it all.
Here and now.
The elevator stops with a ding that punctuates my resolve.
The doors slide open onto a dimly lit floor lined with darkened offices.
I step out, footsteps muffled by the plush carpet.
The air carries a faint scent of institutional cleaner.
At the end of the corridor, giant glass doors bear the opulent gold lettering: Devlin & Sons Financial.
My hand hesitates over the heavy chrome handle. I push gently, expecting the solid resistance of a deadbolt. Instead, to my surprise, the heavy door swings inward smoothly, allowing me to slip inside before it whispers shut behind me.
My heart pounds in my chest, a frantic drumbeat in the sterile silence. On my way to the empty reception desk, my step falters as a sound cuts through the quiet.
Laughter.
Muffled, but undeniable.
It’s light, musical, and distinctly feminine.
My gaze darts down the intersecting corridor, towards the closed doors of the private offices.
The laughter comes again. Louder. Closer than I thought.
I move silently down the corridor, following the sound.
The anger simmering all night burns hotter when I realize it is coming from the last office on the right.
I quicken my pace. I know, I know, I don’t want to see what’s on the other side. But I can’t stop.
The laughter spills into the hallway, mingled with the murmur of voices. His and hers. My fingers tighten around the band of my engagement ring, a glaring reminder of this farce.
I stop just outside the door.
My pulse throbs in my temples, a pounding rhythm drowning out everything else.
A roar fills my ears. My legs threaten to give way.
But as I stare at the sliver of light under the door, a strange detachment settles over me.
Like I’m watching this happen to someone else. A silent observer in my own nightmare.
I raise my hand to knock, then hesitate.
No.
No more games.
I push the door open and step inside.